It was a common pastime of hers; trying to capture the majesty of a truly spectacular sunrise. She had not yet completed a painting that she was satisfied with, but every day brought a new opportunity to try again.
A knock at the door distracted her and she realized she was still in her night gown.
“A moment please!” she called, knowing full well that it was her father behind the door, summoning her for breakfast. They lived a fairly simple life. Americus Notley made a living as a portrait painter and his work was quite revered among the nobility. It kept him busy and earned him a fair living. Enough to employ a maid of all work so that Louisa did not have to be concerned with household chores and could dedicate her time to perfecting her craft.
She despaired of ever being anywhere near as competent as her father but he always said she was a better painter than he was. Louisa was quite sure he was cutting shams to make her feel better about her work – she appreciated it anyway.
Another knock on the door had her tripping toward it. Her father liked for them to break their fast together and say a prayer before they began their day. If Americus had a commission, they would go and fulfill it. If not, they would work on their own personal projects. Today, they were starting a new project. The old Duke of Munboro had sadly passed away and his son had taken over the title. The Dowager Duchess had commissioned her father to do his commemorative portrait. It had caused quite a stir because as far as the townspeople knew, the former Marquess of Steelboro had been lost at sea. To have him suddenly back among them was eliciting quite a lot of excitement. Louisa knew for a fact that the local dressmaker was seeing an increase in business as mothers with eligible daughters scrambled to deck them out as attractively as possible.
It was amusing to Louisa and she was glad that she was not one of those poor ladies. She had no interest in being a wife when she could be a painter.
She tripped down the stairs, a ready smile on her face as she came face to face with her father who was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
He smiled back, just as pleased to see her. “Good morning my dear, and how did you sleep?” he offered her his arm and she took it with a nod.
“Good morning, Father. I slept quite well. How about you?”
“My slumber was sound and peaceful,” he smiled wide at her as he said it, leading her to the kitchen where they would have their repast in company with Theodosia, their maid of all work. Her father seated her before nodding to the maid.
“Good morning all, about time you came down. The eggs are cooling.” Theodosia chided.
Louisa smiled happily and tucked in, listening with amusement as her father explained to Theodosia that no, the new Duke had not come back to life but had in actuality, not been dead in the first place. She was looking forward to meeting him – for sure he would have some tales to tell. Normally she would not presume that a duke would spare time for the likes of her, but according to local legend, this particular duke had run away to sea in order to avoid the trappings of his position.
That gave Louisa hope that he would not feel that she was too much beneath his touch to speak to. Of course, she knew that her main occupation was going to be to assist her father with his task of getting the Duke on canvas. But she had learned that many people were uncomfortable with posing for hours and sometimes, making conversation helped. She truly hoped that the new Duke was one of those for she was eager to hear tales of far off places she would never visit.
Jeremy walked into the dining room and came to a stop when he saw his mother by the window, staring out at something he could not see.
“Mother?”
She jumped, before turning to stare at him with wide eyes.
“Are you quite all right?”
“I-I’m fine.”
Jeremy had noticed how skittish she was – he didn’t know if it was his father’s death that did it or if she had been like that for a while. There was really no one he could ask because he was not about to gossip with the help about his mother, and they had no nearby relatives who might know.
Jeremy moved to the table and sat down, his mother imitating him after a momentary hesitation. Miles, the butler, entered the room on cue and poured him a cup of tea.
He picked up a plate filling it with eggs, kippers, and fresh bread before placing it in front of Jeremy.
“Just some porridge for me, Miles,” his mother said quietly.
“Very good Your Grace,” the butler said before disappearing through the side door. He was back before long with his mother’s porridge. Jeremy watched as she spooned it into her mouth, his brow furrowed. Something was wrong with his mother – he could see that – but he did not know what to do about it.
She ate her porridge quietly, not saying a word and Jeremy took his cue from her, drizzling honey onto his bread and biting thoughtfully into it, as he tried to think what to do about her.
Suddenly she looked up at him. “The painter’s coming today,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The painter is coming today,” she repeated as if he had not heard what she said.
“Whatever for?”
She gave a small laugh. “Why to paint your portrait of course,” she said.
“My portrait? Since when was I–”
“It’s tradition. You are the new Duke. Your picture will be added to the gallery.”
Jeremy was bereft of words. If it was left to him, he would be happy to go through life without another glance at his features in a looking glass. He was altogether too aware of the meandering scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, barely missing his eye. The softened, misshapen skin of his arm, whiter than the rest of his flesh where the black tar had splashed on him.
The ship’s bosun had been intending to injure him badly enough to render him incapacitated having made a deal with a group of pirates to take over his ship. It was fate or luck that his cabin boy had pushed him out of the way…and had therefore taken the brunt of the attack to his back. Jeremy still had nightmares of his screaming.
He also had a stab wound to his side from the subsequent fight in which he had to kill the bosun. Every time he thought of it, he felt like a failure.
He did not think that a portrait of him was something he was interested in.
“Mother, can we please put it off for a few days? I still have many affairs to become acquainted with–” he tried.
“The painter is coming today,” the Dowager Duchess said firmly, clearly unprepared to brook any resistance.
Chapter 2
Picasso
They arrived at Munboro Hall at ten in the morning, hoping to give the new Duke sufficient time to finish his morning routine. The butler let them in and asked them to wait in the parlor. Her father fell onto the chesterfield sofa as if he was exhausted from their short walk and Louisa frowned in his direction. She had noticed his tendency to tire more easily than he had previously and had tried asking him about it. He always dismissed her concerns and she was sure that today would be no different.
The door opened and a tall man was standing in the doorway, tall enough that his dark un-bewigged hair, brushed against the top jamb of the door. He was regarding them both with trepidation as if they were unwelcome.
Her father got to his feet with a smile and bowed. “Americus Notley at your service,” he turned toward her, “and my daughter, Louisa.”
The man looked from her father to her, and then back to her father as if he did not know what to say to them.
“The Dowager Duchess commissioned me to paint a portrait of–” her father was saying since the man seemed unsure.
“I know why you’re here,” the man interrupted, “come with me.”
As abruptly as that he turned away, walking down the hall and clearly expecting them to follow. Louisa frowned at his rudeness but hurried after her father, her arms full as she carried the easel as well as the bag of paints. Her father had the canvas in his hands and he was walking as fast as possible, b
ut could barely catch up.
The man in front of them stopped in front of a door and turned back. His green eyes shone out of a pale face, filled with an emotion Louisa could not identify.
“I think the conservatory will provide an interesting background for a portrait,” he said, “and the light is good.”
“Very good sir,” her father said, trying to hasten his footsteps so he could step through the door before the man got tired of holding it open. Louisa darted forward and took hold of the door, to relieve the man of holding it and her father of the anxiety of having to hurry. Her eyes drifted upward to meet those of the man who was looking curiously down at her.
His eyes traveled down her frock to the easel she was holding. “Do you paint too?” he asked.
She was surprised that he addressed her directly. He seemed to exude an air of impatience about their presence and she had thought for sure that she had been dismissed from his mind even before her father made an introduction.
She nodded slowly, with a shy smile. “But don’t worry, I’m just here to assist my father. I won’t be doing any painting.”
The man nodded…he still had not introduced himself which Louisa found a bit rude. He knew who they were, the least he could do was tell them who he was and when they would be seeing the Duke. If she had not known that her Uncle Gilbert was the steward, she might have assumed that this man was. He was clearly a high-ranking member of the household just from the cut of his cravat.
Her father slipped into the room and she let go of the door. It swung closed behind her without her having to push it and she gazed at it in startlement.
The man moved further into the room and stood by an armchair in the corner. “Would this be suitable for your work?” he asked.
Her father looked around assessingly. “Yes, I most definitely can work with this.”
“Good. When do we start?”
Louisa gawped at the man. “You’re the Duke?” she blurted in her surprise.
His eyes cut to her in surprise. “Yes, I am.” He frowned. “Did I not introduce myself?”
She slowly shook her head.
“My apologies. I have a lot on my mind and everyone already seems to know who I am anyway.” To her surprise, he stuck out his hand to her, “Jeremy Harper, Duke of Munboro, at your service.”
She tentatively reached out and shook his hand before letting it go to curtsy. “Your Grace.”
He ignored that and turned to her father with his hand outstretched. Her father bowed over the hand with a murmured “Your Grace” as well.
“Well, that’s the formalities out of the way, you may call me Jeremy as we work. I’m not one to stand on ceremony.”
Louisa could not help how she gaped. She had never heard of a duke asking commoners to call him by his given name.
“Uh yes, Your…uh, Je-Jeremy,” her father said. Louisa silently began to set up, resolving to avoid having to call him anything if she could possibly help it.
Jeremy took his place in the armchair and crossed his legs, looking thoughtfully out of the window. He crossed his hands on his lap and Louisa’s eyes dropped to them, noting how long, delicate, and sensitive looking they were, despite the calluses she could see on the tips of his fingers.
They said that he had been at sea for a long time and so clearly, he wasn’t some weakling unused to physical labor but he had the hands of a pianist – his nails neatly trimmed and clean. Her hands itched to draw those hands and she had to turn away, busying herself with setting things up where they were within easy reach of her father. The Duke did not seem much interested in what they were doing which was odd.
Usually, their clients were full of suggestions and questions concerning what was about to transpire. Jeremy simply stared out of the window, looking like he wished himself anywhere else but here. Louisa did not think that he would tell her any stories about the sea. She certainly felt too tongue-tied to ask.
Suddenly the door opened and a whirlwind in the form of the Dowager Duchess entered the room. She was dressed in a light-blue muslin gown that billowed around her as if she carried her own personal breeze beneath her clothing. She floated toward Americus with a determined look on her face.
“Have you begun yet, Mr. Notley?” then she giggled looking to Louisa as if to share a joke. “So strange to call you Mr. Notley as well when I am usually referring to your brother when I say it.”
Jeremy had turned his head when his mother entered the room and now his eyes shone with interest. “Brother?” he asked.
“Oh yes, Your Grace, these are Mr. Notley’s brother and niece. They paint.”
Jeremy’s eyebrow rose. “So I see.”
“Mr. Notley is quite renowned. He has painted a portrait of the Prince Regent to commemorate Guy Fawkes’ Day.”
Jeremy’s mouth twisted. “That’s nice, Mother.”
Louisa frowned at his tone. He sounded extremely patronizing of his mother, which did not sit right with her. What gave him the right to look down upon them?
The Dowager Duchess looked uncertainly at her father and Americus sprang into action. “Right well…this is not an official portrait and so you are free to choose how you wish to be portrayed keeping in mind of course, that it will hang in your Gallery of Dukes.”
Jeremy raised a bored eyebrow. “Just get on with it, all right? I do not have all day.”
Louisa could feel the smoke come out of her ears at his rudeness. Nobody spoke to her father like that. She opened her mouth to snap back at him but her father stepped on her foot and she ended up yowling in pain instead. Jeremy was out of his chair at once and at her side, peering down at her face in concern. “Are you quite all right?”
She narrowed her eyes at her father whose eyes twinkled mischievously back at her as if he hadn’t just almost broken her leg. “I’m fine, thank you,” she murmured through gritted teeth.
Jeremy did not move away. “Would you like to sit?” his hand hovered above her arm as if he would like to help her to a seat but wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch her. On reflection, Louisa thought that sitting just might be a good thing. She limped to the nearest sofa as the Duke trailed beside her as if he was incapable of relaxing until she was fine. She flopped onto the seat with a sigh of relief and he immediately went down on his knees and took her foot in his hand.
“Our furniture is quite sturdy,” he said as if he assumed she had bumped her leg against a chair, “it can be quite unforgiving.”
She stared down at him, her mouth open in disbelief as he worked her shoe off and examined her feet as if he was some sort of sawbones. It was most unseemly and she looked up at her father for help.
He cleared his throat and the Duke seemed to come back to himself. He dropped her foot as if it was on fire and got to his feet. “Forgive me…I sometimes forget my manners. The formalities of living on land do not translate well on the open seas. I seem to have forgotten how to behave.” He gave an embarrassed laugh and Louisa’s heart immediately melted. She was not the only one feeling out of her depth here. She reached out, quite boldly she imagined, and squeezed his hand. “It’s all right.”
She reached down and pushed her foot back into her shoe, smoothing down her frock so her feet were completely covered. “Let’s get back to work, shall we?” she said breezily, getting to her feet.
They had completely forgotten about the Dowager Duchess until she spoke. “His Grace does the most outré things. You must try to overlook it.” Her voice startled Louisa and she nearly did stub her toe against a piece of furniture. She turned to find the Dowager glaring at Jeremy. He was looking back but his expression was bland.
“Forgive me, Mother,” he said but clearly he did not mean it. Louisa narrowed her eyes at him, annoyed that he would be so rude to his mother.
“Shall we begin?” her father asked.
“Yes, of course,” Jeremy moved back to the armchair and sat down, putting his chin on his knuckles and staring outside the window. Louisa took a deep brea
th, looking around for somewhere close by where she could sit down. There was a short stool in the corner and she went to get it, putting it next to her father’s easel and sitting down on it.
Her father was already creating broad strokes on the canvas, his face focused. She watched him; fascinated with his technique as always. His painting seemed to come from a place outside of conscious thought. It seemed to flow out of his hands onto the canvas without effort.
She already knew that this painting would be extraordinary.
The girl…Jeremy did not understand why she was here. She looked so soft, her eyes so expressive, her mouth…lush and inviting. When she looked at him, he felt stripped bare, as if she could see beyond all the barriers he put up and straight into his soul.
He avoided looking at her. It was bad enough that his mother had roped him into this ridiculous exercise. If he hadn’t been so worried about her, he would have refused.
There was something very wrong with his mother. If she was not off in her own world, she was having hysterics about petty things. She went from frantic to silent in the snap of a finger and Jeremy had no idea what to do about it. He was afraid that if these painters spent enough time around them, they would see what the Dowager was like and then she would be the talk of Munboro.
They would call her a hysteric.
Jeremy did not want that. His eyes flicked toward the girl again. She was sitting on a stool, staring as her father worked, looking fascinated. He had seen her frown when he was speaking with his mother and was surprised to feel somewhat ashamed, he did not understand it. He barely knew her name, and yet here he was, wanting her good opinion.
He had heard the legend of sirens at sea, who lured sailors to their deaths with their song. He imagined that if they were indeed real, this is how it might feel to be bewitched by one.
He chalked it up to an extended time at sea. She was the first young woman of his acquaintance since he had been back on shore. Perhaps he was just missing the company of someone soft and warm and sweet. Tonight he would visit the tavern and find someone to slake his desire, and then he would get over this foolish thing that had overtaken him in a matter of minutes.
Guilty Pleasures of a Bluestocking: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 29